Three Steps
by Dragonist
Summary: His first nightmare leaves him puking in porcelain, back sticky with blood that wasn't there. His first crush is the girl of his dreams that he's never met. His second love is still his first. Tidus, Yuna, and a love a thousand years after the making.
1. Step One

_~one~_

The first real nightmare he has - one that isn't about rampaging ants or broken toys or lots of yelling and thunder storms - is when he's six years old. He'd been playing blitzball in the park with his dad one evening, the first free time his dad had had to spend with him in weeks. It went pretty well, and he was laughing and smiling and happier than he'd been since his last birthday, when his dad had made it home not only early but with a cake and ice-cream and everything else a sticky young kid could want. Then, as he was wont to do, he got tired, little chubby legs slowing and happy cries turning to sleepy complaints.

It hits him in the back, a sudden sharp pain that burns through his nerves and into the depths of his subconscious. His father had already started laughing, saying things like gotta have eyes in the back of your head if you want to be a star, son. Tidus doesn't know when (if) he notices his tears, if he notices the slight shakes in his hands. A half an hour later, they're both back at home, his mother fussing over dinner and Jecht already sprawled on the couch. He manages to choke down half a serving of spaghetti before his mother sends his pale little self off to bed.

He wakes up screaming, feeling the sticky wet spread of blood on his back, on his chest, hating the rasp of his last words in his throat.

His mother tells him he's fine. She tells him it was just a dream. She tells him getting hit in the back with a blitzball doesn't kill anyone (and she's not lying, really, because a bad a father as Jecht was, he was a damn good blitzball player, and he knew better than anyone how hard was too hard to throw one).

He throws the spaghetti up in the bathroom toilet anyway, his tiny little hands gripping the porcelain for all they're worth. The vomit burns his throat, harsh and acidic enough to make the next words he says hurt so much he'll never try to say them again.

"It wasn't a blitzball."

_~two~_

Of course, nothing lasts forever, good or bad. His dad disappears the next year; his mom sickens, then dies. Auron shows up in that god-awful coat of his, dark and mysterious and absolutely useless in consoling a newly orphaned boy in a world that will worship his hated dad's name for the rest of its short life.

The feeling of waking up covered in screams and fear and blood dies quickly, replaced by the feeling of waking up to a world devoid of mommy and daddy and anyone else who gives a fuck. Unlike the first nightmare, waking up doesn't cure the second. He spends years upon years upon years raging about that fact, and no _substitute_ playing dress up was ever going to convince him that things weren't not okay.

He doesn't give a fuck if this is his story or not; he's not the one doing the writing. He knew his life was going to be a tragedy the second that blitzball hit him in the back. It just takes him a few more years, give or take a decade, to find out how right he was.

He throws himself into blitzball, knowing that it's the one fear of his that's irrational enough to be overcome. He learns the tricks, memorizes the trade, and plays so damn well that people finally start to see him as more than just Jecht's son.

One night, looking up at the screen where his dripping wet face beams back at him, Tidus still isn't sure if that's an improvement or not. He's good at blitzball - the best. The fact that he's tan and blond and blue eyed might have something to do with it. He has fans that scream his name even when the other team is about to score, just because he's hot and he's moving and they don't know shit about blitzball other than it's played by fit guys underwater and what's more to want?

He has no dad and his dear departed mummy is, well, departed. He sleeps with more girls than he knows what to do with, would be the father of too many screwed up brats if he didn't have enough deep-seated hatred about his own daddy dearest to always insist upon protection.

Always.

Seventeen is a bit young for marriage offers, so he doesn't take the ones he gets screamed at him very seriously, but he's half sure that if he tried to take one of his fan girls up on it, he'd find more than a couple willing. Somehow, the thought isn't as appealing as it could be.

He's still a bit too inexperienced to be developing a preference, but he finds himself leaning towards brunettes. He likes them with straight shiny hair, long enough to cover their shoulder blades and soft enough to never want to stop touching. He tries to avoid the fan girls most prone to shrieking; bad voices are one of his biggest turnoffs. He likes smooth over shrill; melodic over dissonant.

He doesn't feel bad about most of it. He had a crappy male role model and then an even crappier replacement. He figures that doesn't excuse him forever, but it should more than cover his teenage years. Strangely, the one thing he feels most guilty about is his dreams. He's a normal teenage boy, with normal teenage hormones, and although he's tried some pretty crazy stuff in them, that isn't the part that leaves him hesitant to face the photo of his dead mother in the eyes.

It's probably because he's played in too many games, he thinks, seen too many cheerful fan girls. Maybe she was even one of the opposing players, he doesn't remember. All he knows is that she's melodic, and kind, and jaw droppingly beautiful.

He hates that he can't remember her name.

_~three~_

When his reluctant father figure drops him off the edge of the world with nothing except a _this is your story_, he wants nothing more than to scream. So he does. While he wouldn't quite call himself a simple person, when he has simple wants, he tries to oblige them. Screaming won't hurt anything but his pride, after all, and in this ruined dump, there probably won't be any witnesses to do that.

He's wrong, of course, because he should have known better than to expect anything to go right that day. He finds himself chased by a demonic fish the size of a house, and if that isn't the weirdest thing he'll ever do, well, you won't find him making any bets, because the blonde girl with her braids and ribbons and heavily armed entourage quickly dissuades him of that particular notion.

There's something wrong with the world. He can tell that much, even with his measly seventeen years of experience. Monsters aren't supposed to roam the wilderness, and Sin is supposed to be something you feel guilty enough to pray about, not something that wrecks your house and your neighbor's and then your entire village. He isn't supposed to have to swing his sword (his sword! he isn't supposed to have a sword! swords are for knights of the round table, for history books and dorks who play fencing instead of blitzball!) again and again and again if he wants to live long enough to make it into town to get something to eat.

But he has to, and so he does, and by the time he makes it far enough into safety to be able to screw things up further than he ever thought possible, he half wants to believe their story about him having lost his memory.

Because Zanarkand, his Zanarakand, his wonderful sprawling metropolis, can't be _gone_. The thousands upon millions of people that lived in its skyscrapers, that walked the streets that never sleep, can't be dead and gone and destroyed. Especially not a _thousand fucking_ _years_ _ago_.

It's not possible.

He's so worried and out of place that by the time he finally starts paying to their lecturing, (say some five or ten seconds after they're done doing it) he doesn't know what to believe. He lived in a city yester-yesterday that had been dead for a thousand years. He was the star on a team that never existed. He was in love with a dream

wrapped in soft black and white cloth, all short silky brown hair and mismatched blue and green eyes, ringing with the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and the bells tied to her sleeves.

He thinks _lenne?_ and knows **_yuna_.**


	2. Chapter 2

_~one~  
><em>

_you can do it_

"Tidus!" The dozing child jerked awake as Selphie shoved him into the sand. "What are you doing sleeping! Come on, Riku set up a campfire for Sora and Kairi! Let's go!"

Tidus reached up to wipe the sand off his mouth with a disgruntled look on his face. "Jeez, Selphie. Could you shriek any louder?" The boy spat out a wad of spit coated sand. "Now my tongue's all sandy."

"What_ever_." Selphie rolled her eyes at him as she grabbed his arm and pulled until he stumbled to his feet. "Come on, we've got to hurry up! You know we'll get in trouble if we stay out too long past dark!"

Tidus crossed his arms. "So, the mayor's finally letting his pwecious wittle baby Kairi stay out late?"

Selphie giggled before she smacked his arm. "Don't be mean, Tidus!" She said, but she said it smiling. "But yeah! That's why we've got marshmallows and chocolate and everything! Although..." Her smile turned mischievous.

As the two of them jumped over a beached log, Selphie shoved Tidus back to the sand. "Hey!" Tidus rubbed his mouth angrily as he glared up at her.

"Last one there has to eat the burnt smores!" Selphie called out at him as she started to skip away.

Forcing his eyes to stop watering, Tidus held back a shriek as he felt the cold tide wash up against his bare feet. "I hate you," he mumbled as he pushed himself off the ground.

"Huh?" Selphie turned back to stick her tongue out at him. "What'd you say?"

His little hands balling up into fists, Tidus glared at her. He opened his mouth and then shivered as a cold night breeze whispered through his hair. "I hate you!" Tidus yelled as Selphie laughingly ran off towards the campfire.

Before he made his own tripping way after her, he took a moment to rub the goosebumps off his arms.

_~two~_

_you're a blitzball player, aren't you? from zanarkand?_

"Tidus!" The aforementioned boy let out a short shriek as a blitzball bounced off the back of his head.

"Wakka," Tidus groaned, rolling onto his back as he looked up at the still laughing boy. "What do you want now?"

The slightly older boy tossed his ball up into the air, not even needing to look to be able to catch it. "Come on, man! We haven't had a good game in weeks!"

Tidus let his head fall back onto the sand with a muffled thunk. "Go play with Sora or something." He let out a yawn. "I'm tired."

"Are you being serious?" Wakka snorted. "All _that_ kid," he glared at the screaming boy being tossed into the surf, "wants to do is play sword fighting. He'd probably try to play baseball with _this._" Wakka cradled what Selphie often referred to as his baby with a protective look on his face.

Tidus just rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'll play with you later, Wakka. I'm still bummed out about that freaking science project we've gotta do."

"Come on, man!" Wakka crossed his arms in his own version of a pout. "What happened to all your stupid little dreams of starting your own pro team?"

Tidus shivered as a cloud passed over the sun, the shade an unwelcomed respite from its heat.

"What about the Zanarkand's, or whatever you called it?" Wakka let out one last remark. "You can't start your own team if you're not even a member. Are you a blitzball player, or aren't you?"

Tidus groaned as he stumbled to his feet, ignoring Wakka's blinding grin. "Fine," he sighed, "but only if Selphie referees. You cheated about the scoring last time."

"Did not!" Wakka laughingly said as the two of them headed off to steal the pigtailed girl away from Kairi.

And then, as the sun reemerged from the clouds, Tidus couldn't keep himself from smiling.

_~three~_

_i want to you to be my guardian_

"Tidus?" Tidus cracked an eye open as Selphie sat down next to him. "What's with this stuff?" The girl cast a questioning look at the pile of books and magazines now half covered in sand.

"I'm supposed to pick out some career," Tidus groaned, glaring at a picture of some long haired guy in a lab coat. "But all I can find are these dorky ones about science or math or some shit."

Selphie giggled. "Stupid," she said, punching him in the shoulder. "Why didn't you just do it in class?"

"I _tried_." Tidus crossed his arms as he watched Wakka throw his ball at a flock of seagulls.

Selphie rolled her eyes. "Lemme guess. You picked something stupid, like blitzball hero or retired billionaire."

Tidus shook his head as he buried his flushed cheeks in his hands. "No..."

Sensing weakness, Selphie pounced. "Aw, come on! You can tell me! I promise I won't make fun of you or tell Kairi, if she ever snaps out of it."

Tidus cast one last loathing look at the pile of magazines before he abruptly stood and started to walk off towards the pier. "Hey! Wait up!" Selphie, quickly scrambling to her feet, raced after him.

"What's the big deal?" She asked later as they dangled their feet off the edge. "What could you pick that's that embarrassing?"

A seagull, its strong wings flaring out to catch the latest breeze, dove down into the water in front of them. Tidus watched it for a moment before he turned back to Selphie, cheeks still red but eyes watery.

"I said I wanted to be a guardian." Tidus mumbled at her, one hand rubbing rather harshly at his eyes.

Selphie blinked. "A guardian?" She parroted. "Like... foster care, or something?"

Tidus snorted. "No, not that. It's just... you remember in history class, when we were learning about the followers of Yevon?"

Selphie nodded at him as she kicked the back of her shoe against the weather-beaten wood. "Well, yeah. I'm not _stupid_, you know."

It took her a moment of watching him watch the sea for her to realize it, however. "Oh!" Selphie clapped her hands together, her hair flying out as she spun to face him. "You mean you wanted to be a guardian for a pilgrimage?"

Hazy eyes still on the swimming seagull, Tidus nodded.

"But..." Selphie worried at her lip. "Tidus, there haven't been any pilgrimages in a couple hundred of _years._ Well, I mean, there's still pilgrimages, or course, but none of the kind of that need guardians."

Tidus scowled. "You don't think I know that?" He asked but refused to look at her.

"Well," Selphie teasingly replied, "seeing as you said you wanted to be a guardian, of all things..." When Tidus failed to respond, she frowned. "Anyway, what do you want to be a guardian for? Even if there still were any, there aren't any pilgrimages anywhere near the islands. You'd have to go so far away!"

Tidus lifted his face up to the sun as he watched the seagull fly away. Selphie couldn't place the look on his face - it looked like something between nostalgia and regret.

But when he turned to face her, his scowl was firmly back in place. "So? Why would it matter to you if I left these stupid islands?"

Inexplicably, Selphie found herself having to force tears to stay out of her eyes. "What do you mean, you idiot!" She half-shrieked, overcome with hormones and pride and the ever-present fear of growing up. "I don't care if you're a guardian or whatever, but I still want you to live nearby!" Selphie was too busy talking to notice his sudden flinch as he stood up. "We're friends, aren't we? And besides..."

Selphie, still looking away from him at the sea, blushed. "I kind of like you... in a not-so-much as friends kind of way." Too afraid to look at him, she stayed silent for a few moments, waiting for him to respond. "Tidus?"

The tanned teen was gone. All that remained to show he ever had been there was a small pile of sand that slowly fell through a crack in the boards.

White teeth biting into a pink lip, Selphie turned around to watch Tidus disappear around a corner. Forcing herself to relax her tight grip the hem of her shirt, she looked to the sea and sighed.

"Tidus..."

_~and~_

_don't worry. i can fly. believe._

"Yuna!" Tidus woke up with a racing heart, sweaty palms, and a sinking feeling of dread. He stared, eyes hazy and unseeing, at the starry night sky. Wakka slowly stirred awake beside him.

"Tidus?" The other teen slurred. "Who's Yuna?"

Tidus rolled over, resting his cheek in the hollow of his crossed arms.

"I don't know," he said, hating the ashen taste of the truth in his words.


End file.
